The Dream Hopper (Those Whom the Gods Wish to Destroy Book 2)

by Shawn Mackey

  “I'm sorry, but I like this place. It's very serene. You live in a town like this?”

  “It's usually crowded,” he said. “I like it better this way. Nothing wrong with solitude.”

  “And what if your town were really empty like this?”

  “I suppose I'd dream of people,” he said. “You should be the expert on this subject. Don't people dream about the things they wish they had or had done?”

  “Sometimes. I try to narrow it down to that and do the best I can to make things right. It’s never that easy. People don’t always want what they want. Some like it dangled in front of them. You give it to them and you’re bound to do some damage. It’s not always about catharsis, no matter how much I try to convince myself otherwise.”

  “Elaborate.”

  “Think of it like a story, only there’s no plot and no characters. Just a really long series of scenes with a bunch of ad libs. It takes a lot of practice to take that and make something cohesive. Luckily, I’m a great supporting actor. The lead can be difficult at times, but I’ve gotten better at bringing out their potential.”

  “What’s the point of a story without the good stuff?”

  “Because if you take out the beginning and end, bring in a cast that never plays the same role twice, and a set crew that’s mastered the art of rehashing, you’ve got the greatest theatre of all time.”

  “I still don’t get it. Why would anyone stay for such a crappy show? It’d be like walking into an insane asylum and prying in on the conversations.”

  “The theatre’s always open and welcomes everyone to take part. Best of all, it’s free.”

  “A free root canal is still torture.”

  “You’re ruining my analogy, Bill.”

  “It’s as flawed as your rationale.”

  “There’s no performance like it. Since the show never stops, the audience stays satisfied. There’s never any complaint on their part. Whoever they are. The actors get so caught up in their roles, they don’t even realize they’re performing.”

  “I’m the exception?”

  “And a few others. None I can really recall offhand.”

  “I’m not going to take part, and I don’t like the idea of somebody roaming around my head. Does that ruin your little play?”

  “I’m just trying to put it into perspective. If it bothers you so much, I can leave,” I said, rising to my feet. He shook his head.

  “You're too interesting. Tell me more about your life. Mine's boring in comparison.”

  “I'll give you that. My life is never dull,” I said. “I just need a vacation. This place would be ideal.”

  “People are always dreaming. A guy like you probably never gets the chance to relax.”

  “Not often,” I said. “There was this one time, not too long ago. I was in the dream of a comatose man. It lasted a long time. I got knocked unconscious for a while too.”

  “Did you have a dream?” he asked. I nodded, reluctant to elaborate.

  “It was another life.” I finally went on. “I was lucky enough to meet two old friends. It wasn't as pleasant as it sounds. I made some bad choices. I discovered some things about myself that were better off forgotten. Nothing concrete, just shadows.”

  “Maybe you’re better off that way.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “A man like me isn't suited for civilization. I sometimes think my thoughts haunted, and I mean literally. There’s a ghost, some remnant of a leftover mind, encroaching in a place it once called home. No. . . . I need to know the truth, even if it kills me. Anything is better than this creeping madness. Death can’t be so bad.”

  “Believe it or not, I can relate. Maybe not as grim, but I suppose it’s all relative. I’m just a regular guy, not like you,” Bill said, stopping for quite a while before elaborating. “My wife died in a car accident. My daughter died of cancer. My son died of a drug overdose. I have nothing.”

  “None of that’s your fault,” I said.

  “I divorced my wife a year after my son was born,” he said. “She died three years later. Her new husband was given custody of the kids. I was relieved beyond belief. I had no intentions of raising children. When my daughter died of cancer at the age of twelve, I didn't even visit her at the hospital. I went to the funeral and faked tears. That day was the first and only time I spoke to my son. I heard about his overdose last year in the newspaper.”

  “That's rough.”

  “What was I doing all those years? Working a dead end job, and occasionally having sex with my on and off girlfriend. She's gone too.”

  “How’d she die?”

  “She didn’t,” he said, staring at me grimly. “I'm not a very likeable person either. She left me for good, around the time my son died. Like I said, I can relate. The only time I'm at peace is when I'm here.”

  “Solitude isn't going to cure your problems.”

  “It's not supposed to,” he said. “I'm just biding time until I die.”

  “Well,” I said, standing up and stretching. “I think this is where we should part ways. You're depressing as hell. I’m going to enjoy a walk in the sun. Don't be afraid to step out of the shade, Bill. It's a beautiful day.”

  “But the dream isn’t over,” he called out. I stopped and looked over my shoulder. “It always ends the same way. I think you should see.”

  “What happens next?”

  “I read this poem in a bookshop not long after my daughter died,” he said. “It was called ‘The Nightmare’s Drip.’ I can only recall the first few lines, and whenever I say them aloud, I get cold all over and wake up sweating. I never see what gets me, but I sure as hell feel it.”

  “Then don’t say it.”

  “Wicked were the lips that drank the nightmare’s drip,” he said. “Tainted are the pools of dreams where all the world once gleamed.”

  The moment the final world left Bill’s mouth, the tree’s shadow morphed into a solid mass of wavering black liquid, and as quickly as it was formed, he sunk straight to the bottom. I was instantly torn from the serene park to the familiar black void.

  Bill had invited that horror into his haven, and in his cowardice, had deprived me of its splendor to inflict punishment on his loathsome self. The time would come when the shade of that lonely tree in his dreams could no longer grant him respite.

  Chapter 12:

  Guilty

  I found myself in the center of a questionable neighborhood. The houses constantly shifted between white and light blue, the streets and driveways packed with sedans and minivans. Families of four walked their dogs, eyes wary of one another, among an air of virulence and the scent of wet garbage. I had to plug my nose to keep from gagging.

  If I had to guess a reason for the volatile surroundings, this was the dream of a neurotic. A small spark would have set the atmosphere ablaze. These types of environments don't last long, usually due to the dreamer's explosive and often hostile imagination. The mood was infectious. In the corner of my eyes, I saw dancing shadows and meddlesome eavesdroppers. They were gone before I could turn my head.

  “What the hell are you looking at?” I snapped at a leery woman, then followed with a muttered and probably incoherent apology. My paranoia had me sweating buckets. I shook it off and continued to walk.

  There was something wrong. An unfamiliar anxiety ate at me. Every pore of my body was seized by a nauseating sensation. The sickness left me with the urge to vomit. What was there to purge? The unwelcoming vibe bordered on hostile. If there were any way for me to leave, I would have gladly done so.

  Unfortunately, the dreamer walked with a bunch of pasty goons headed in my direction, their putrid yellow grins seemingly directed at me. I didn't like it, yet I carried on. They formed a circle around me, more quizzical than threatening.

  “Don't touch him,” the dreamer said. He was scrawny and extra pimply, especially under his receding blonde hair. “We don't know what will happen. They're not really people. Who knows how they'll react.”r />
  “You talking about me, pal?” I asked. They simultaneously jumped back, as though an animal had just spoken.

  “Hello,” the dreamer said, carefully extending his hand. “My name is Todd. This is Colin, Taylor, Brent, and Kyle. We aren't from around here.”

  “That so?” I said, shaking his hand. “Me neither.”

  “Do you think he's one of us?” the one named Brent asked. “You're not supposed to be able to touch them. Right?”

  “I think this is his dream,” Todd said. “What's your name?”

  “I don't have one,” I said.

  “He probably forgot it,” Colin said. “I've forgotten my name in dreams before. Where are you from?”

  “Why are you guys interrogating me? I was just saying hello.”

  “No,” Todd said, facing Colin. “He's one of them. This is a shared dream. We did everything correctly.”

  “Are you going to clue me in or what?” I asked.

  “Well,” Todd said, pausing and glancing at each of his friends before continuing with a shrug: “It’s called a shared dream. We've merged into one consciousness using a machine we built.”

  “Sounds like some state-of-the-art technology,” I said. “How's it work?”

  “The receptacle we created transmits our brain waves, like telepathy. Kyle is a psychic, so we know it works on a waking mind. We were able to transmit emotions and basic thoughts to each other. I didn't think it would let us walk around in dreams. This is so surreal!”

  “Are you sure about that?” I asked.

  “Watch out,” Kyle said, facing Todd. “I think he's a shadow. Damn! You touched him. It might already be too late.”

  “Aren't shadows supposed to be hostile?” Todd asked.

  “He's trying to convince us that we aren't dreaming. That's typical of a shadow. Trust me, I've confronted many,” Kyle said. “Since we're coalesced, he can't harm us singly.”

  “I'm not harming anyone,” I said.

  “His voice,” Colin said. “I've never heard anything so hollow. He's definitely a shadow.”

  “I'm a man,” I said, taking a step forward. “But suppose I am a shadow. Then what?”

  “He's taunting us,” Colin said. “Definitively taunting us. We should run.”

  “No!” Brent shouted. “They thrive on fear.”

  “Attack!” Taylor screeched. “There's only one of him!”

  “Come on, guys. I'm not going to hurt—”

  They simultaneously piled on and bombarded me with enough force to kill a fly. Their combined power amounted to the strength of a sissy. I effortlessly tossed them aside, one at a time, and seized Todd by the collar. Perhaps too roughly, judging by his girlish cries.

  “Police!” he howled. “He's a madman!”

  “I didn't throw the first punch, but I'll be damned if I don't throw the last! Tell your friends to back off before I lose my temper,” I said.

  His pathetic bawling left me livid. I would have done something irrational if two pairs of arms hadn’t pried me away from him. The newcomers were eight feet tall and muscular to a comical degree. Despite their silly appearance, I couldn't move an inch under their iron grip.

  “It's the dream police,” Kyle said, sighing in relief. “They're in charge of exterminating shadows. That was close.”

  “You are under arrest,” one of them said in a voice so deep I could barely understand. “The trial is about to commence. Who is your defense?”

  “Defense?” I asked.

  “Request denied,” the other said.

  Todd's thin lips curled into a hideous sneer. I immediately lost control, gnashing my teeth, launching spittle and curses with each bark. The police tightened their grips. I could hear bones cracking between their thick fingers as they dragged me away. Todd followed at our heels, while Kyle and the others wandered off.

  “You're going to wake up and find out your stupid machine is nothing but a heap of metal,” I growled. “Wait until they let me go. I'll show you how real I am.”

  “Shadow,” he said jeeringly. “Shadow. Shadow. Shadow.”

  As I opened my mouth to shout, I was hurled through a doorway. I slid across brown tiles, finding myself in the center of a large room with two opposing tables and a boxed-off area filled with seats to the right. Directly behind me was a massive audience consisting of men and women in fancy attire.

  “Order in the court,” a voice boomed. I looked up to find the black-robed judge behind his desk, just as the gavel cracked, silencing the already quiet room.

  One of the officers from earlier forced me in a seat behind the left table. At the opposite table were Todd and Kyle. The latter was wearing a suit and thick-rimmed glasses. He shook his head at me in condemnation and then looked back at the judge.

  “The prosecution is ready, your honor,” he said.

  “And the defense?” the judge asked. His face was shrouded in a black hood, his voice even deeper than the police officer's. “Is the defense ready?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Proceed,” he said, slamming his gavel. “Bring in the first witness.”

  “Your honor,” Kyle said. The smugness in his tone made my skin crawl. “We call Lily to the stand. Her testimony will shed light on the defendant’s bizarre psychosis. He's quite deranged, so we ask the bailiff to exercise an extreme beating in case he's seized by another mania.”

  “Sustained,” the judge said, slamming his gavel.

  A young woman rose from the audience and walked her way to the stand. Her short, black hair and sickly pallor were familiar, and the scorn in her glare was unmistakable. I remembered seeing it peer in envy from the window as her friend Angela embraced me.

  “Tell us about the defendant, Miss Lily,” Kyle said.

  “His name is Michael,” she said.

  “He lied!” Todd shouted, rising and pointing at me. The audience let out a collective gasp. “He told me he didn't have a name!”

  “That's practically a guilty verdict right there,” Kyle muttered, facing the jury, who chattered wildly.

  “Overruled,” the judge said, slamming his gavel. “Please continue, witness.”

  “He abducted my friend Angela,” she said, tears dripping from her reddened eyes. “I don't think I can say what happened next! It was unspeakably heinous!”

  “Please, Miss Lily,” Kyle said soothingly. “Your testimony is the key to locking this scoundrel up for good. I urge you to elaborate for the court.”

  “Murder,” she whimpered.

  The court erupted into a deafening babble. I heard various mumblings behind me: “Why bother to go on? He's obviously guilty.” “Monster in a man's skin! Monster in a man's skin!” “I hope he gets the noose.” “Just look at him! He looks like a Mafioso. Sounds like one too.”

  “And how can you confirm this?” Kyle asked.

  “She never came back,” Lily said, weeping. “She promised to come back!”

  “Did you see it happen?” Kyle asked, his voice full of urgency.

  “Yes,” Lily said, wiping away her snot and tears. “I saw him whisper in her ear. He touched her and she turned into a pile of goo.”

  “He's a shadow!” Todd shouted. The judge slammed his gavel before the audience could react.

  “Silence the plaintiff,” he ordered Kyle.

  “Shut up,” Kyle snapped at Todd and then sweetly addressed Lily: “What happened next?”

  “I blacked out,” she said. “It was too shocking to the senses. I'm sorry.”

  “No need to go beyond that,” Kyle said. “We have a second witness.”

  “Bring on the second witness!” the judge shouted.

  Lily was rushed off the stand, but not before sneaking a wicked smile my way. I clenched my fist in frustration, unable to comprehend the recent events. There was no logical explanation for her appearance or the rest of the court. Whatever the verdict may be, I could only wait for this twisted trial to end, and in the meantime keep control over my temper. My rage h
ad already gone from smoldering to seething.

  Jimmy limped to the stand, bandaged beyond recognition. Only his mouth and eyes remained exposed. I recalled his pathetic gait and snarled. He scratched the front of his head and sat down, looking around nervously. When the judge cracked his gavel, the wretch nearly fell from his seat.

  “Mister Jimmy,” Kyle began. “Tell us about the defendant. Is he responsible for your current state?”

  “Kind of,” Jimmy said, fumbling with one of his bandages. “His friend shot me in the face. I asked for his help, but he pretty much told me to go to hell. If he'd listened, maybe I wouldn't have to walk around like this.”

  “Will you show the jury your injury?” Kyle asked. Jimmy nodded in reply, and Kyle continued: “The squeamish may want to close their eyes.”

  Jimmy unraveled the bandages around his head. A fistful of white maggots squirmed around the gaping hole, which oozed yellowish brown pus. A portion of the audience puked in unison. Kyle motioned for Jimmy to cover the wound. He complied, though a few maggots plopped onto the stand's surface. He brushed them aside with a shrug.

  “Tell us more about the defendant's friend,” Kyle said.

  “He went by the name Shadow,” Jimmy replied.

  It took several minutes and dozens of gavel slams to cease the audience's violent cries. No matter how loud they clamored, I could still hear Todd's snickering. I loathed the charlatan, scarcely resisting the urge to strangle his lanky neck. The way his lumpy throat bobbed with each breath made my blood boil.

  “Did this,” Kyle glanced at the audience with a pause, “friend of the defendant have any reason to harm you?”

  “I owed him money,” Jimmy said, scratching his head. “A lot, actually.”

  “I don't see that justifying murder,” Kyle said, facing the jury. “That will be all, Mister Jimmy.”

  “Okay,” he said, limping toward the doorway, viciously scratching his forehead. As he was about to exit, he called out: “And he killed Shadow. I saw him turn to dust. Don't ask how that happened. It just did.”